<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>I could be if I tried by meggiewrites</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27494512">I could be if I tried</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/meggiewrites/pseuds/meggiewrites'>meggiewrites</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Men's Football RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>First Kiss, Fist Fights, It's not Bad Violence but There Are Punches and Bloody Noses, M/M, Rivals to Lovers, but not really</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 21:54:14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,517</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27494512</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/meggiewrites/pseuds/meggiewrites</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>There is blood on Bernd’s lips. It tastes bitter, like iron, but what’s even more alien than the taste in his mouth is Marc’s thumb, brushing over where Bernd’s lip is split.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Bernd Leno/Marc-André ter Stegen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>28</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>I could be if I tried</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/colorsofmyseason/gifts">colorsofmyseason</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hi. Yes, I know, I haven't written in forever. Yes, I hate it, too. I hope some of you are still around?</p><p>This was written for a prompt 'Tracing the other’s lip after kissing them because those are the softest lips you know and you kissed those lips' that I got from Mirano over on tumblr, and uhh I went a bit overboard? I hope you enjoy it anyway ^^  unbeta'd, as usual</p><p>Based on Bernd saying they once got in an argument over him calling someone late at night when they were roommates on the youth teams.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>There is blood on Bernd’s lips. It tastes bitter, like iron, but what’s even more alien than the taste in his mouth is Marc’s thumb, brushing over where Bernd’s lip is split.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rewind to ten minutes ago.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bernd is on the phone with his brother. They’ve been calling for over an hour, but he doesn’t feel like hanging up yet, really, not when they’re exchanging stories, laughing together, having fun in a way that feels almost reminiscent of their childhood. Daniel is talking animatedly, and even without seeing him, Bernd can so easily picture the way he’s moving his hands, bringing his words alive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Out of the corner of his eye, he can see ter Stegen roll his eyes yet again when Bernd mentions their training.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Really, it’s only due to bad luck that they were assigned the same room. It’s not like they hate each other, but their relationship is probably best described as reserved. They are competitors on the pitch, sure, and they’re almost the same age – and of a talent, really, no matter how much Bernd hates admitting that. All of that doesn’t make them enemies, but it certainly does not make them friends.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Admittedly, so far, ter Stegen has been an okay roommate. Quiet, yes, but never in Bernd’s way, and not chaotic at all. Really, he’s been pleasant enough that Bernd can easily deal with the quiet glares and the cold shoulders that come with it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Except that tonight, ter Stegen has already expressed his displeasure at Bernd starting a call at half past nine in the evening, and admittedly, if he was the one doing it Bernd wouldn’t have liked it either. But it’s his brother, so he picked up anyway, not sparing ter Stegen another glance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But slowly but surely, it’s getting hard to ignore him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ter Stegen has sat up on his bed a few minutes ago, frowning at Bernd, and now he’s standing up, taking a few careful steps through the room to where Bernd is sitting at the bottom of his.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can you turn it off now?” he asks, and Bernd pulls his eyebrows together. “I want to sleep. We have training in the morning.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bernd is </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span> close to mocking him, but instead he bites his tongue – no need to rush headfirst into a fight without trying to make a more grounded argument first.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ll be done in ten minutes or so,” he shrugs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“‘Or so’?” Ter Stegen snorts. “Yeah, you already said that an hour ago. Turn it off. Now.” He has that look on his face again, the same look he carries whenever he’s told that he gets to start ahead of Bernd, as if it’s his right, his rightful place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The look that is enough to blow Bernd’s fuse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll turn it off when we’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>done,</span>
  </em>
  <span>” he spits, and ter Stegen’s eyebrows draw even further together. “Now fuck off, will you?!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bernd didn’t mean the words to come out as harshly as they did, but realizes too late that there wasn’t really another option with the phrasing he chose. Too late, in this case, being when ter Stegen stomps up to him so fast he doesn’t even manage to say goodbye to Daniel first.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ter Stegen’s fingers close around his phone, yanking it away from Bernd’s ear. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bernd doesn’t let go. Instead, he yanks it back, with so much force that ter Stegen almost stumbles into him. He shoves him away like unwanted baggage, not realizing how aggressive he must come across – not until ter Stegen pays him back in full. Bernd sneers at him, and ter Stegen–</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He punches Bernd straight in the face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the end, Bernd isn’t even sure what actually happened. His nose started bleeding immediately, but he’s pretty sure he didn’t hear it cracking. His chin and jaw hurts. Red droplets drip down onto the carpet one by one, making it look like a crime scene.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bernd’s phone lays on the floor, the screen cracked and black. Bernd is holding his nose, his hand is sticky and warm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ter Stegen is staring at his fist. It isn’t bruised, but his fingers are still clenched. Some of Bernd’s blood is stuck to some of the knuckles. He unclenches them, as if in disbelief, and only then, yes only then does he lift his head, eyes widening.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yeah, Bernd chuckles weakly, wanting to gag at the unfamiliar, unwanted taste in his mouth, that sums it up rather nicely. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His nose has stopped bleeding, and it doesn’t hurt too much, so at least he doesn’t think it’s broken, and he lowers his hand slowly, letting it hang by his side, not knowing what to do with it, with himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ter Stegen’s eyes are wide, as if he doesn’t want to believe what he’s done, what just happened – and truthfully, Bernd doesn’t really understand either. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe that’s why he doesn’t even flinch when ter Stegen slowly lifts his hand, the one so delicately decorated with Bernd’s red blood, why he doesn’t pull away or push his arm away when he puts it on Bernd’s cheek, resting it there. Thumbing over his bottom lip. Only then does Bernd notice that it must be split too, notices by the way he flinches when ter Stegen brushes over it, the tiny dart of stinging pain, rubbing away the blood. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Inexplicably, Bernd’s eyes flicker down to his lips, unsplit, perfect, but not pulled into a mocking grin as usual, but tight with concern instead. Concern for Bernd, or only for himself, fearing what would happen if this made its way to the coaching staff?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bernd doesn’t manage to find an answer. Suddenly, it’s as if all his thoughts have been brushed away, his mind emptied apart from the blue of ter Stegen’s eyes, the pink of his lips. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His thumb on Bernd’s lip.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Afterwards, it’s impossible to tell who leaned in first. Bernd remembers though, the way Marc’s eyes flick up to him for a split second, questioning, asking for permission that Bernd doesn’t know why he grants it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he does. Nods.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The kiss is everything their conversation, their fight wasn’t. Tender. Careful. So feather-light as if they were afraid they could cut themselves on it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marc’s lips are impossibly soft. That’s the only thing Bernd remembers when they pull away, too puzzled, to astonished.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wants to feel it again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do that again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They speak at the same time. Bernd feels the blood rushing to his cheeks, embarrassed, but he raises his chin, not taking his words back, challenging Marc, taxing him with a look. He lifts his arm, wipes the blood on his sleeve – he left a print of red on Marc’s face, and after a moment, Marc mirrors Bernds action before hesitantly taking a step forward, but hesitating.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bernd raises his eyebrows. “So hitting me isn’t a problem, but this is?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You pushed me!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, you </span>
  <em>
    <span>kissed</span>
  </em>
  <span> me!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> asked me to it again!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead of an answer, Bernd rolls his eyes before grabbing him by his shoulders, pulling him closer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This time, it’s bruising, fighting, not with their fists but their entire bodies. It’s rough, but yet, Marc’s lips are as soft as they have been. His hair is messy when they pull away, not as far, it’s sticking out at all angles from where Bernd has run his hands through it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s too much, and Bernd has to look away, noticing only out of the corner of his eye that Marc is turning away too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Somehow, they manage to get ready for bed without exchanging another word. Bernd tosses the bloodied clothes into his bag, washes his face. He looks at himself in the mirror and wonders if he’s still the same person he was before he locked lips with his self-declared arch-rival.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he steps out of the bathroom, the tension is back, as if the only thing that had actually occurred was their fight, and not what happened after. Bernd isn’t sure if it’s the same tension as before. Curiously, he sees the same uncertainty mirrored in ter Stegen’s annoyingly perfect face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They end up sitting on their respective beds, facing each other but cautiously avoiding to look at each other. Ter Stegen has his hands clasped tightly on his lap, knuckles turning white. He’s looking up at Bernd, just as Bernd stares back at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s Bernd who speaks first. “Goodnight,” he snaps, his tone almost annoyed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ter Stegen gives him an unreadable look, then a tight nod.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They sleep with their backs turned towards to each other, but after a few minutes, Bernd sighs, turning around as quietly as he can. Marc’s back is rising from the white of the sheets. It’s broad, broader than Bernd’s. It feels odd to remember how warm, how steady his shoulder felt underneath Bernd’s palms, too. But somehow, as he turns back around, it makes him smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just before he falls asleep, Bernd hears Marc’s sheets rustle too. And for a moment, he wonders if the other goalie looked back to him, as well.</span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I write FICTION about real people. None of this is intended to harm them or their reputation in any way. Please leave kudos and maybe a comment if you liked it! | <a href="http://manuelmueller.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>